“Can you actually eat that?” My cousin squints suspiciously at the slice of pumpkin pie on my plate. “It’s probably loaded with sugar,” he chuckles. I roll my eyes, wondering when I’ll grow accustomed to this line of questioning. Yet, it still manages to irritate me, especially during the holiday season when everyone else seems to indulge without a care while I’m scrutinizing every morsel.
I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes 13 years ago, a twist of fate that coincided with Thanksgiving. It all began with a strange virus that hit me with stomach cramps and a pounding headache. What followed was a gradual decline in my health over the next 18 months, during which I lost nearly 30 pounds despite consuming more calories than I should have. I was constantly thirsty, often panicking if I couldn’t find my water bottle. Walking became a challenge; the short distance from my car to class felt like a marathon. My body ached, and the weight of it all pushed me deeper into depression.
During that time, I was my harshest critic. I was painfully aware of my frail frame, and others noticed too—sometimes with cruelty. One man at the gym bluntly told me to “eat a hamburger.” I caught students whispering and falling silent when they saw me nearby. Some grad school peers even followed me to the restroom, questioning whether I was intentionally throwing up. I heard comments like, “Enough with the weight loss,” and “What are you, a size 00?”
After visiting five different healthcare professionals and attending nearly 20 appointments, I still hadn’t received answers. My primary care doctor suggested I might be anorexic or a hypochondriac. A registered dietitian handed me pamphlets on high-calorie foods, while an optometrist was baffled that stronger contact lenses didn’t fix my blurry vision. The message was clear—something was very wrong, but it seemed to be all in my head.
One fateful Friday morning, I took a nap and woke up to my husband rushing home from work to take me to the emergency room. After several blood tests, a nurse bluntly remarked, “You smell sick.” An hour later, a doctor entered with my lab results and informed me that I was a type 1 diabetic, with horrifying numbers: blood sugar of 700 and an A1C of 16.9. I was headed to the ICU, my body in a toxic state known as diabetic ketoacidosis.
During my five-day hospital stay, I learned that type 1 diabetes is a chronic autoimmune disease where the body stops producing insulin, a hormone vital for regulating blood sugar. Without insulin, survival is impossible. Diabetics like me must inject insulin or use a pump, monitor our blood sugar levels, and manage carbohydrate intake. There’s no cure.
Type 1 diabetes accounts for about 5% of all diabetes cases, while gestational diabetes affects some women during pregnancy, and type 2 diabetes—previously called adult-onset diabetes—comprises the majority. Regardless of the type, uncontrolled blood sugar can lead to significant health complications such as blindness, kidney damage, and even limb amputation. For me, numerous factors—weather, exercise, hormones, and sleep—can send my blood sugar levels into turmoil.
Experiencing a near-death situation transforms your perspective. That’s why I find diabetes jokes utterly unamusing. Having faced death is not only frightening but also deeply traumatic.
Social media amplifies the problem, especially around holidays. I often see memes and GIFs that trivialize my life-altering condition, perpetuating stereotypes that diabetics are merely sugar-craving individuals lacking self-control. Sure, I appreciate humor, but there’s a significant difference between joking about my own experience and someone else making light of my daily challenges.
Holidays present unique difficulties. While others pile their plates with carbohydrate-laden dishes, I’m calculating carbs and insulin needs, hoping to enjoy just a sliver of the sweet potato pie that I brought. It’s frustrating when someone asks if I can eat what I’ve selected or shares a horror story about a relative with uncontrolled diabetes. Managing blood sugar is complex—like trying to control an unruly toddler in a toy store.
I often hear insensitive jokes like, “Just looking at all this sugar will make me diabetic,” or someone impersonating Wilfred Brimley’s famous “diabeetus” line. As if that’s clever. My experience with diabetes is inextricably linked to my everyday life, and I crave the same holiday enjoyment as everyone else. The last thing I need is humor directed at my condition.
I’m grateful for how far I’ve come and thankful to be alive. However, if you could leave the diabetes jokes for me to share, I would truly appreciate it.
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In summary, living with diabetes is a challenging journey that is often misunderstood. The jokes that surround it can be hurtful and reductive, failing to acknowledge the complexity of managing this condition. As we navigate the festive seasons, let’s cultivate empathy and understanding instead of humor that can sting.
Keyphrase: Living with Diabetes
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